Reds in the Beds

by Martin Turnbull

  He blew out a plume of gray-blue smoke. They both watched it shoot toward the ceiling. “I appreciate your sharing this with me.”

  Kathryn breathed more easily. She’d been expecting fireworks, maybe some desk thumping and ashtray throwing. But he sat across from her, puffing like a banker. “They don’t care about you,” she said. “The whopper they’re hoping to land is Siegel.” She perched at the edge of the seat and gripped the corner of his desk. “Boss, don’t you think it’s time to let this one go? I know it’s your dream, and I know it could become the ultimate moneymaker for you, but it’s put you a million bucks in debt to the mob. I know you don’t want to hear it, but this might not end well for you.”

  She let herself fall back in the chair, sapped. His eyes wandered aimlessly around the messy office until they landed on a framed photograph on his desk. It was of Wilkerson and his fifth wife, Vivian, who he’d married only two months before. He was still contemplating the photograph when someone from the typesetting room burst through the door. He was a short guy, thickset, with Popeye forearms and a perpetual five o’clock shadow.

  “Here you go, boss.” He rushed to Wilkerson with a galley proof. “Gimme a jangle when you’re sure it’s exactly what you want.”

  “Thanks, Perc,” Wilkerson said, and waited for the guy to leave the room. “You know I can’t walk away,” he told Kathryn. “I’ve got too much invested, and I don’t just mean the money.”

  I gave it my best shot.

  His telephone rang. She went to get up but he waved her back down. “There’s something I want to ask you,” he said as he picked up the receiver.

  Kathryn’s eyes fell onto the galley in front of her as Wilkerson took the call. The fresh black ink was drying in the afternoon sun that was slanting through the panoramic window behind Wilkerson. She blinked when she saw the headline: A VOTE FOR JOE STALIN

  For a number of years now, Wilkerson had been using his editorial column, “TradeView,” as a soapbox for his deepening hard-line views. Whenever anyone—especially the more politically active liberals at the Garden—brought them up, Kathryn was quick to point out that she rarely agreed with anything her boss had to say. She would then add that he seldom censored anything she wrote in her “Window on Hollywood” column, and reminded them there were worse things than being given free rein to write whatever she wanted by someone who wrote whatever he wanted.

  But “A Vote for Joe Stalin”?

  Preoccupied by the phone call with his new wife, Wilkerson flung his feet up on the credenza. Kathryn perched herself forward and swiveled her head to the left to read the column.

  He’s actually going to name names! In print!

  She recognized many of them. She’d briefly met Dalton Trumbo at the Academy Awards banquet the night he was nominated for Kitty Foyle. She’d met Howard Koch a couple of years later when he won for Casablanca. And Ring Lardner Jr.—Hoyt had asked about him the night the Hollywood Canteen closed down.

  By the time Wilkerson got off the telephone, Kathryn was on her feet.

  “Are you insane?” She pointed at the galley. “This is libelous. You’ll be sued all the way to bankruptcy court!”

  He stared back at her, infuriatingly nonplussed. “I can only be sued if I publish a false statement that is damaging to a person’s reputation.”

  “Exactly!” Her voice hit a strident pitch.

  “In that case, I’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  He ran a finger down the list of names. “Every one of these men are members of the Communist Party. They won’t be able to deny it.”

  “You’ll ruin careers!”

  “Whose careers?” Wilkerson’s voice had thickened with contempt. “A bunch of fellow travelers hard at work slipping their Communistic message into our movies? If those careers get ruined, then I consider that ‘mission accomplished.’” He got to his feet. “I’m not the only one who thinks Clifford Wardell did Hollywood a favor by expos—”

  “Reds in the Beds is a pile of drivel written—atrociously, I might add—by a two-bit hack with a chip on his shoulder the size of Cleveland. You cannot use it as the basis of some”—she waved her hand over the galley— “manifesto declaring war on talented people who may or may not be members of the Communist Party, which, I should remind you, is not illegal. It’s called the First Amendment. Look it up!”

  “I’m not concerned with constitutional legality.”

  “You should be!” Kathryn stepped away from the desk, wanting to throw something at him.

  “I’m concerned with the moral question here,” he said. “Our motion pictures exert a huge influence on the values of this country. If there is any danger—and there is—that the fabric of American society might be compromised by the Communist principle, then I consider it my duty to fight it where I see it. To sit by and let that happen is un-American.” He held up the draft of tomorrow’s column. “This is how I fight the fight.”

  She opened her mouth, but he cut her off.

  “Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate the information you came in here to share with me. But I’m warning you, Kathryn, when it comes to this Commie issue, you either get on board, or get out of my way. This is war.”

  Kathryn backed out of her boss’ office, past Vera’s desk, and into the corridor that led to the elevators. The doors opened, and she was whisked to the ground floor. When she stepped out onto Sunset Boulevard, the heat of the July sun shocked her out of her stupor.

  I’m standing here in public, she realized. No hat, no gloves, no handbag. People will think I’m a homeless person. Then she thought, Just walk, Kathryn. If this is war, you’re going to need a clear head.

  CHAPTER 18

  Marcus tugged at the sweetheart neckline of the lilac shot-silk dress he was wearing. “Is this thing supposed to be uncomfortable?”

  Gwendolyn slapped his hand away and pulled out the three pins clamped between her lips. “It’s not lined.”

  “And my shoulders are cold,” he added.

  “That’s what cashmere wraps are for,” Arlene scoffed. She handed Gwendolyn more pins. “And besides, it’s August—how cold can your shoulders be?

  When Gwendolyn invited him over for drinks and nibbles with Arlene, he’d thought nothing of it. Oliver was at some official city function commemorating the first anniversary of Hiroshima, and Kathryn was at a soiree to welcome Marlene Dietrich back from entertaining the troops. Trevor Bergin was drafted into attending the same party with Melody Hope, so Quentin had dropped by and they were about to pour their first whiskeys when Gwendolyn came knocking.

  “Stop fidgeting,” she scolded him. “We’ll never figure out why this darned thing isn’t hanging properly if you keep squirming.”

  “I think you look terribly fetching.” Quentin raised his glass in salute. “Lilac suits you so awfully well.”

  Marcus shot him a stink eye. “You’re not helping.”

  “Then please, dear Marcus,” Quentin said, “tell me: How I may help?”

  “By tracking down Clifford Wardell.”

  It was now nearly a month since Mayer and Mannix ordered him to secure the rights to Reds in the Beds. The Herculean task was made all the more impossible when the news of Wardell’s authorship and subsequent dismissal drove the little skunk underground. Quentin pulled in a favor and got Wardell’s home address, so Marcus sent a series of ever more urgent telegrams, but they generated no response. So then he went to Wardell’s little bungalow south of the Wilshire Country Club. His incessant knocking drew a nosey neighbor who sent Marcus to Wardell’s favorite bar, a seedy joint called the Round Up. The bartender knew who Marcus was looking for, but hadn’t seen him.

  Quentin scooped up Arlene’s French onion dip with a celery stick. “I already did my bit. Perhaps he hightailed it back East to visit Mother Dearest.”

  “That’s more than possible,” Marcus said. “Hand me my drink, will you?”

  “Not till you’re o
ut of this dress!” Gwendolyn pulled on the front hem. “Don’t move. The drape is perfect now.” She took the piece of chalk Arlene handed her and ignored Marcus’ awkward position. “You did a wonderful job, Arlene. Marcus should have gotten you a job in Costuming, not Legal.”

  When Marcus sent Arlene a message to meet her at C.C. Brown’s ice cream parlor on Hollywood Boulevard, he knew she’d be pleased to hear that the secretary for Ritchey in Legal had found out she was pregnant, and the job was hers if she wanted it. But he wasn’t prepared for the flood of tears that erupted amid the high schoolers and out-of-work actors. It was the only nice-girl-happy-ending story he’d heard in a while.

  Quentin raised his whiskey glass. “Here’s to Clifford Wardell!” He downed the rest of his Four Roses in a swift gulp.

  “What does this creep look like?” Arlene asked.

  “As a matter of fact . . .” Quentin reached into his jacket and pulled out a clipping from Variety. “I cut this out to show Trevor because he was asking, too.” He unfolded the article and handed it to Arlene.

  “HIM? This is the guy?” She started to laugh. “I wish someone had showed me that a month ago.”

  Gwendolyn stood up. “Okay,” she told Marcus, “you can get out of it now. But be careful—there’s two dozen pins in this thing now.” She lowered the zipper at the back.

  Marcus snaked his way out of the dress and reached for his shirt. “You recognize him?” he asked Arlene.

  She nodded, and made with the Betty Boop eyes.

  “HOLY MOSES!” Quentin shot up in Gwendolyn’s loveseat. “Clifford is a regular at Leilah’s house of ill repute?”

  Arlene nodded. “That’s Mr. Ketchup, all right. He’s got a thing for redheads. It’s red or nothing with that guy.”

  “Puts a whole new spin on Reds in the Beds, doesn’t it?” Gwendolyn observed.

  Marcus looked at Arlene’s strawberry blonde hair. “Does that mean you had to . . .?”

  Arlene threw up her hands in horror. “No, thank the Lord. His preference was Rita Hayworth red, or Lucille Ball red. I didn’t qualify.”

  “How often would he visit?” Marcus asked.

  “Tuesdays and Fridays. He preferred the cathouse up on Benedict Canyon. She would swap us around from house to house if one of the girls had the day off, or called in sick because Aunt Flo had come for a visit.”

  “And you’re sure it was him?” Marcus asked.

  “We all knew about Mr. Ketchup. Mrs. O’Roarke would even pay girls to have their hair dyed extra red, and then charge him a premium. He never hesitated.”

  “Tuesdays and Fridays, you said?” Marcus asked. “What time?”

  “Ten o’clock.”

  Marcus looked at his watch. It was a quarter of ten on a Friday night. He looked at Quentin. “Feel like taking a ride?”

  * * *

  It was a wide, single-story house spread out along a hairpin curve high up in the Hollywood hills. To the east, the Sunset Strip glowed, and farther up the canyon a single streetlamp lit the intersection with Mulholland Drive. Finding a place to park along this deserted stretch wasn’t difficult, but locating a furtive cranny from which Marcus and Quentin could observe comings and goings proved more of a challenge. In the end, they agreed that it would be best to park a little ways uphill.

  By the time Marcus embedded himself among the mammoth fronds of an old banana palm across from the brothel’s front door, it was almost ten thirty. Marcus wondered if a pig like Wardell was the type to get in, do his business, and get out in fifteen minutes. But Quentin insisted that he’d take his time and get his money’s worth. “If he shows up at ten, there’s no way he’d be gone already.” So Marcus stood under the broad leaves and waited and waited and waited.

  At a couple of minutes to eleven, the left side of the double doors opened and Wardell slipped outside and rummaged through his pockets for a cigarette. Marcus was barely a couple of feet away before Wardell saw him.

  Marcus jutted his head toward the house. “Enjoy yourself?”

  Wardell didn’t answer straightaway. He took in Marcus’ appearance while he tried to figure out what was going on. “I did. But don’t let me get in your way.” He stepped to one side and jerked his hand toward the double doors. “Oh yeah, that’s right, you’re not interested in anything that goes on in there. On account of your wife an’ all.” He blew a smoke ring into Marcus’ face and went to walk around him.

  Marcus stepped in his path. This might be your one and only chance to put this deal across. You need to keep this calm and contained, no matter what he says.

  “You never responded to any of my telegrams.”

  “You’ve got a high opinion of yourself if you think you’ve got anything I wanna hear.” The jerk was pale as a wraith.

  “Actually, Clifford, I think there is.”

  “After what you did to me?”

  “What did I do to you?”

  “Down at Long Beach. Goading me into admitting I was Julian Caesar.”

  “Someone broke the news to Winchell, but it wasn’t me.”

  Wardell jabbed a finger toward Marcus’ face. “I’ll tell you this for nothing. You did me a favor. Since Winchell blabbed the big secret, Reds is selling more than ever. And the publisher has offered to buy my next book. Whopper of an advance like you wouldn’t believe. I got money, I got fame, and I got out of that job I hated. I’m sitting mighty pretty and I owe it all to you. So thanks, buddy-boy.”

  “I’m telling you, it wasn’t me.”

  “Well, in that case—”

  Wardell shot out his right fist and slugged Marcus in the temple. Marcus staggered back with a deafening buzz in his ears. “And that’s for calling me Clifford. I don’t recollect inviting you to use my first name.”

  “You better watch that right hook of yours,” Marcus said calmly. “Whacking people like that might affect your movie deal.”

  “Shovel that shit someplace else. Ain’t no studio going to touch my book with a ten-foot pole.”

  Marcus looked Wardell in the eye, willing himself not to blink. “The movie deal I’m about to offer you.”

  A pair of headlights rounded the corner behind them. The two men split apart, backing onto opposite sides of the road while a late-model Pontiac slowed outside the brothel, then disappeared up the hill.

  “What movie offer?” Wardell said, suspicious as hell.

  Marcus pulled the contract from his jacket pocket and held it up in the moonlight. “Fifty grand. Standard deal. Sign it now and you’ll have a cashier’s check by Monday afternoon.”

  Even in the dim light, Marcus could make out the gleam of greed in the man’s eyes. Marcus jiggled the paper. “Fifty grand’s pretty good for just writing your name.”

  Marcus heard a window open; honky-tonk poured from the brothel as they stood in the murky moonlight, staring at each other. Eventually, Clifford hawked up a wad of spit and shot at the patch of dirt between them. “A hundred,” he said.

  Marcus whistled as though he was dismayed to hear him aim so high. “We both know this is the only offer you’re going to get. And it’s a one-time-only deal. If I walk away without your signature on the dotted line, Mayer told me to set fire to it. Come on,” he pushed, “be realistic.”

  Eventually, Wardell said, “Seventy-five. And not a dollar lower.”

  “I’m authorized to go to seventy, and not a dollar higher.”

  Mayer had told him to go as high as a hundred grand, but Marcus knew that if he secured this deal for substantially less than that, it’d land him big kudos.

  Wardell crossed his arms. “How about sixty-eight?”

  Marcus blinked with surprise. “Didn’t you hear what I said? I can go to seventy—”

  “I’ll take sixty-eight if you do me a favor.”

  “A favor worth two grand?”

  Marcus searched Wardell’s face for traces of sarcasm, or deception, or anything that indicated a hidden agenda. The honesty he found looked out of place, but gen
uine.

  “I figured if I put a price on it, you’d take me seriously.”

  Oh, this I’ve got to hear. Marcus suddenly wished Quentin was hiding under the banana palm fronds witnessing this bewildering exchange. “I’m listening.”

  “There’s this guy. Name of Anson Purvis. Son of my best pal growing up back home. He signed up to the marines right after Pearl Harbor. Bravest son of a bitch I ever met. Spent the whole war in the Pacific until Iwo Jima.”

  “What happened there?”

  “Got a leg blown off, all the way up to his ass. Couldn’t walk for nearly a year, but never complained. Not for a second. Now he’s up and at ’em like a champ. And guess what he wants to do?”

  “What?”

  “Write movies. Can you beat that? You could’ve knocked me over with a cotton ball. So I ask him if he’s actually ever written a screenplay. The next day he’s on my doorstep with three of them all typed up, neat as can be.”

  “Were they any good?”

  “Not bad. Needs a guiding hand, but then who doesn’t?”

  “So why not get him a job at Paramount?”

  Wardell grunted. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’m persona non grata around there these days. Nobody wants to know me. Personally, I don’t care one way or the other, but I promised the kid. He’s had a rough time but is keen as all get-out and I’d hate to let him down.”

  “It must be killing you to ask me for a favor.”

  “Let’s get one thing straight.” Anger flared in Wardell’s eyes before he wrestled it under control. “I don’t like you. Not one little bit. But when I saw Free Leningrad! I thought to myself, Jesus, that annoying little twerp knows how to craft one damn fine story. Anson needs a strong hand, and if you give it to him, he’ll churn out some great stuff for you. And I’ll have done at least one decent thing in my life.”

  Screw you, Marcus thought. Screw you for snow-jobbing me with a sob story. He snorted. “This business sure makes for deadly bedfellows.”

  “What does that mean?”